The Creole Language Is the Cornerstone of Réunion’s Identity
- Cet article est une traduction de :
- « Lang kréol i simant la konstriksyon l’idéntité rényoné » []
- Autre(s) traduction(s) de cet article :
- La langue créole cimente la construction de l’identité réunionnaise [fr]
- « Lang kréol i simant la konstriksyon l’idéntité rényoné » []
- « Lang kréol i simant la konstriksyon l’idéntité rényoné » []
Résumé
In these conversations, Danyèl Waro shares memories of his austere childhood in the south of Reunion Island, his deep connection with nature, and his discovery of maloya. He denounces the social injustices and colonialism that have shaped the island’s history. He also recalls his incarceration in France and shares his commitment to defending Reunion’s identity, while extending his fight to universal struggles for human progress. Danyèl Waro urges his people to be proud of their specificities, valuing respect for diversity and tolerance.
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1Born in 1955 in Le Tampon, Danyèl Waro grew up in a modest farming family who, through perseverance, managed to acquire a small plot of land to meet their needs. Unlike his schoolmates, his childhood was marked by austerity and agricultural labor, which forged in him a free and rebellious spirit while awakening his awareness of social and class injustice.
2Educated at a time when the neocolonial policies imposed by Paris were stifling the Réunionese language and culture, young Danyèl – the son of parents active in the Communist Party – showed his defiance as early as middle school. In one composition, he chose to write in his native language, Creole. This act of rebellion earned him punishment, but far from discouraging him, the incident strengthened his convictions and contributed to the shaping of his identity.
3Although he did not grow up in a musical environment, at the age of fifteen he discovered the songs of Georges Brassens thanks to his sister Huguette. He became captivated by the artist’s irreverent lyrics, which resonated deeply with his own personality. During an annual celebration organized by the communist daily Témoignages, Danyèl Waro was struck by a vibrant, haunting, and mesmerizing sound: maloya. This encounter with the traditional music born from the ritual heritage of the descendants of enslaved people was a revelation for the young man.
4A staunch antimilitarist, Danyèl Waro refused to wear the uniform or submit to compulsory military service. His defiance earned him nearly two years in prison in Rennes, where he composed his first deeply committed songs behind bars.
5Upon returning to Réunion, he devoted himself entirely to his calling as an artist and maloya singer. Now internationally recognized, Danyèl Waro plays an essential role in preserving and promoting Réunionese culture. Through his music, he gives voice to the struggles and aspirations of the island’s people.
6In 2009, maloya was inscribed on UNESCO’s Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity list – a recognition that crowned the commitment of an entire people. Danyèl Waro continues to inspire a generation of artists determined to defend and celebrate réunionité, the unique identity of Réunion.
7In these conversations, Danyèl Waro recalls memories of his austere childhood in southern Réunion, his deep bond with nature, and his discovery of maloya. He denounces the social injustices and colonial legacy that have shaped the island’s history. He also speaks of his imprisonment in France and reaffirms his commitment to defending Réunionese identity, while broadening his struggle to embrace universal causes for human progress. Danyèl Waro urges his people to take pride in their uniqueness, upholding respect for diversity and tolerance.
Salim Lamrani: Danyèl Waro, you were born in 1955 in Le Tampon, into a family of small farmers. What memories do you have of your childhood?
Danyèl Waro: I indeed grew up in Le Tampon, on a plantation with my family – my three sisters, my brother, and my parents. It was a life marked by austerity, but without extreme deprivation. Of course, some of my friends enjoyed a higher standard of living than we did, but my childhood was above all shaped by discipline and the value of working in the fields.
I learned to plant the crops that made up our staple diet. My father had bought three hectares on credit, and that represented our first taste of freedom: we could produce our own food. We grew cassava, taro, beans, corn, potatoes, and geraniums. We practiced a kind of organic farming without even knowing the concepts of ecology, environment, or sustainable development. Back then, these terms were never mentioned – not on the radio, nor on television. In any case, we had neither radio nor television at home.
I learned about life in the fields, on the plantation, through work. My parents passed on their know-how in cultivating the land. In particular, I learned how to grow red geraniums, which we distilled to extract the essence and then sold to the cooperative.
SL: Your father was also a livestock farmer.
DW: Yes, we also raised some animals – poultry and pigs. We lived off the fruits of our labor, whether for our own consumption or to sell at the market. My father sold pigs in particular, and he was nicknamed the “pig senator” because he was in charge of their sterilization. That was the term used to refer to the farmers responsible for that task.
We had methods of preserving meat that had been passed down through generations of farmers, long before the advent of modern standards of traceability and hygiene. For example, we knew not to let flies near the meat, that it was best to slaughter the pig early in the morning and heat water. We also knew how to prepare blood sausage, sausages, salami, and many other products.
Hygiene rules were naturally part of our practices, even though they were never written down. We took care to provide people with good-quality meat, and we never poisoned anyone. In Trois Mares, in Le Tampon, there was never an epidemic linked to these practices – the same went for other meats, such as goat. To my knowledge, I never heard of a single case of food poisoning on small farms in those days.
SL: So your youth was shaped by work, far removed from music.
DW: Indeed, we didn’t play like other children. My father had grown up in poverty and couldn’t imagine us spending time on games, reading, flowers, music, or daydreaming. For him, work was the absolute priority – the only way to meet our daily needs.
One day, my father managed to get a small radio thanks to one of his friends from the Communist Party. When he brought it home, he made it clear that it was only to be used for listening to the news – not for music. He would turn it on only for that purpose. As soon as the broadcast was over, he turned it off, and we went back to work in the fields.
The only music we heard was the theme tune that preceded the morning news, which we listened to while having breakfast. We also heard La Marseillaise on the radio. From time to time – though very rarely – we might hear a bit of séga, such as the latest releases by Maxime Laope or Jules Joron. That was in the early 1960s.
Yet I always loved to sing – at school fairs, in the fields, or at mass. Later, when television arrived, I often watched music programs. I listened a lot to French singers like Johnny Hallyday and Mireille Mathieu. I also learned to read very early, at around five or six years old, at school. I had a natural gift for language.
SL: Your youth was marked by a rebellious spirit, a rejection of oppression, and a strong sense of identity. You even wrote your first essay in Creole in eighth grade, at a time when Reunionese students were forbidden to speak their language.
Danyèl Waro: I grew up under the influence of the Réunion Communist Party (PCR). My parents were activists in this autonomist movement. We followed the entire saga of Paul Vergès’s years in hiding, as well as the battle for the geranium in 1963. We joined demonstrations to defend the rights of sugarcane growers in Saint-Louis, despite prefectural bans.
We subscribed to the newspaper Témoignages. My mother often read it aloud to me, and my father, though barely literate, made the effort to leaf through it. So I grew up in a militant atmosphere, steeped in struggles against colonialism and trade-union battles. I belonged to a community of resistance – a community asserting its right to exist, symbolized by the repression endured by Paul Vergès. I was raised in that climate, with the conviction that we had to command respect.
At the time, the opposition had no place in the press. The media were tightly controlled, and Jean-Vincent Dolor, editor-in-chief of the ORTF’s Regional Information Bureau (BRI), acted as a kind of “political policeman.” We in the PCR carried the ideal of autonomy: taking our destiny into our own hands, finding solutions suited to the specific realities of Réunion, and progressing at our own pace.
That spirit of activism took root in me very early on. I grew up with the belief that we must never let ourselves be trampled on. We had the right to choose our own path. We didn’t hesitate to express our ideas by painting slogans on the walls – “Long live Vergès!” or “Long live autonomy!” – doing everything we could to avoid being caught by the authorities.
Living in that environment was an extraordinary experience, because I belonged to a community, a group united by a common cause. It gave profound meaning to our commitment.
SL: Did religion have a particular place in your family?
DW: We weren’t very religious, and we didn’t go to church, even though my mother was a believer. My father, on the other hand, was not. He was an anticlerical communist. To him, the priest was on the side of the rich and the conservatives. It must be said that, during elections, the Church often supported the right wing. The same had been true in the days of slavery, when the Church sided with the exploiters. Fortunately, there were a few honorable exceptions – Fathers Michel Reynolds, René Payet, Christian Fontaine, and Nelson Courtois – who offered us another way of reading the Gospel.
There were many communists who believed in God, but Marxist ideology rejected religious practices such as attending Mass. There was a certain dogmatism about it. For my part, my community was political rather than religious. Our reflection centered on social analysis. In the Trois Mares neighborhood where we grew up, people would say that the “true God” was Catholic. Other religious practices, such as fire-walking, were frowned upon. They were seen as witchcraft, something to stay away from. My mother shared that view. It’s what inspired my song Mon momon lé réyoné, where I talk about those contradictions.
SL: Yet you lived in a very cosmopolitan neighborhood.
DW: We lived in Trois Mares, and we often came across Malbars during religious processions. These colorful celebrations, full of fragrances and music, were part of our childhood. Yet that didn’t prevent some people from making contemptuous remarks. Malbar music wasn’t considered “real” music. Everything inherited from slavery or indentured labor was looked down upon. We were expected to conform to the Catholic, white, respectable, and proper “model.” Anything outside that framework wasn’t seen as culture but rather as disorder, nighttime noise, witchcraft, or drunkenness.
These practices were tacitly forbidden – there was no need for an official ban. For example, one inspector from the Ministry of Education once declared that Creole should be “shot dead.” Of course, there was no law explicitly banning maloya, but in practice this music was repressed under various pretexts, such as disturbing the peace. When we tried to play maloya in front of the airport, we were forbidden to do so as well. We had to fight, to resist. The road to recognition was long and full of obstacles.
SL: You didn’t grow up in an artistic environment. Your great musical discovery came at the age of fifteen, when you listened to Georges Brassens for the first time. What attracted you to this singer – his irreverence, his rebellious and nonconformist spirit?
Danyèl Waro: I grew up listening to séga and French popular music. When I was fifteen, I came across a 33-rpm record by Georges Brassens at my older sister Huguette’s house in Saint-Pierre. Before that, my only encounter with Brassens had been back in sixth grade, when our teacher played Le petit cheval blanc for us in class. I liked the song, but I didn’t think to learn more about the artist.
When I listened to the album, I was completely captivated by the brilliance of his lyrics. At fifteen, I already loved his love songs – offbeat, humorous, and never sentimental. There was no syrupy sweetness in his writing. Some described him as misogynistic, but I admired his unique way of speaking about relationships between men and women. The way he approached sensuality resonated deeply with me.
I was also fascinated by his anarchist streak and his rejection of the established order. His cry of rebellion, Mort aux vaches (“Death to the cops”), struck a chord with me. I loved his rebellious image, his mauvaise réputation, his refusal to conform or to obey blindly. His rejection of the army and of war perfectly matched my own convictions.
I immediately identified with him. Like Brassens, I have always refused to march in step, to submit to rules imposed by the established order. I hate war, and I have always opposed anything to do with weapons or the military. I protested against the Vietnam War, and even guerrilla movements held no appeal for me.
SL: You were aware of injustice from a very young age. You’ve said that you would see your school friends go on holiday while you went to work in the fields.
DW: Yes, you could definitely call that deprivation. My classmates were entitled to rest and leisure – outings in the highlands or days at the beach. As for me, my days were filled with farm work in our little corner of Trois Mares, alongside my family. Vacations simply didn’t exist for me. We had to cultivate the land to produce our daily food. Planting vegetables, growing corn – none of it happened on its own. We had to fill our plates.
For me, school holidays meant hard labor, often under a blazing sun – and in January, at the height of the southern summer. It wasn’t an easy life for a teenager, but there was no escaping it. We had to spread fertilizer, pull up weeds, sow seeds, spread manure, dig holes…
At school, my classmates could see the marks of farm work on my hands – my fingernails were often black. My clothes weren’t always spotless either, because before class I had to help carry sugarcane. Because of that, I was sometimes humiliated, bullied, and mocked by other students. They laughed at my skin color and my accent, too.
But all of that shaped my character. I learned what it was to have the sun beat down on your head, and the rain soak you to the bone. Those experiences gave me balance – an inner strength.
SL: You also became aware of social differences.
DW: Very early on, I became conscious of social classes – especially in the political environment I grew up in. On one side were the landowners; on the other, the working people. I belonged to the latter. The bourgeoisie enjoyed life’s comforts, while we lived in the backyards, marked by poverty, unemployment, and the struggle to survive.
That said, some families were worse off than ours. We were lucky always to have food and good health. We rarely needed a doctor. We were poor, yes, but not plunged into the extreme misery that others endured.
That’s the world I grew up in, and I’m grateful for it. I don’t reject those circumstances. On the contrary – those trials and hardships shaped the man and the artist I became. They gave me the strength to forge my own path and build my philosophy of life.
I am thankful to the sun that burned my head, and to the ants that bit me so many times. I had the good fortune to learn about life through that austerity and those challenges. It was a precious education – an invaluable life lesson.
Salim Lamrani: For a long time, Paris applied a form of paternalistic colonialism to Réunion.
Danyèl Waro: France long regarded us as second-class citizens. At school, we were taught a foreign language – French – while Creole was denigrated. French was the language: the only legitimate one, the only truth, the only intelligence. Our own language, Creole, was rejected, mocked, and repressed. People even claimed that Creole poetry didn’t exist.
Our history, our culture, our identity were all consigned to oblivion. We existed only on the condition that we spoke French. That discourse eventually took root in our minds, to the point that many of us began to believe it and to feel a deep shame about who we were. That inferiority complex became embedded in our consciousness.
Today, it’s no longer even necessary to ban Creole – the complex is already ingrained in our collective memory. Some parents, born in Réunion, forbid their children to speak Creole, convinced that the language is a mark of inferiority. They believe that education, success, and happiness depend on erasing Creole.
That is where the real violence lies – and it is something deeply painful for us. Yet we must never be ashamed of who we are, nor allow ourselves to be intimidated by colonialist rhetoric.
Fortunately, there are activists for the Creole language who continue to resist and to reject these attempts at acculturation. We can learn French, English, Tamil, Chinese, Swahili, or Simaoré without denying our own tongue. To renounce one’s identity is like uprooting a tree and hoping it will still grow – it’s impossible.
It is essential that we recognize the worth of our music, our language, and our identity.
SL: When did you first discover maloya? What drew you to this traditional song, which was tacitly banned by the authorities at the time?
DW: I didn’t grow up in a musical world. My first musical discovery was séga, particularly through the songs of Michel Admette. I also remember Jules Joron and his famous line: “Every Saturday night, Rosalie dances maloya.” It was in the 1960s that I first heard the word maloya, without really knowing what it meant. This kind of music was never played on the radio or television.
The first time I truly heard maloya was at a celebration organized by the newspaper Témoignages, at Maison Pota in Saint-Paul. I was still a child, just passing by, drawn by the sound of the music. The atmosphere was electric. A group was performing on a small stage, and I was mesmerized by this vibrant, living, unique music.
It was in 1971, when the Communist Party won the mayoralty of Le Port with the election of Paul Vergès, that I truly discovered maloya. The newspaper’s festivities could then be held in public spaces. I was lucky to be involved with the Party, which supported Firmin Viry in his long struggle to promote maloya. He told me that back in 1959, he had to perform inside a covered truck because there was nowhere else to play.
At those events, the final day always ended with a major performance before Paul Vergès’s speech. Firmin Viry and his family presented a choreography that brought together activists and supporters. In the front row sat the Party leaders. We, the young and irreverent ones, used to joke, saying, “Here comes the Kremlin!”
The show was impressive. I remember Firmin with his kayamb and his hat, playing with his thumb. His voice came from deep within his throat – powerful and authentic. The roulèr resounded deeply. People danced all around the stage. It was a light, gentle maloya, a style all his own, that made you want to move.
I was completely transfixed by the rhythm and carried away by his voice. That music left a profound mark on me.
SL: It was a true revelation.
DW: Absolutely. I remember wondering how I could have missed maloya for so long. I already liked séga – especially Jules Joron, with his boldness, his style, his music, his voice. But maloya was something else entirely. It was a revelation of my identity, my culture – of what defined me most deeply as a Creole, as a Réunionese. It was a shock, an awakening.
Maloya also carried powerful political messages. It sang of autonomy, of Paul Vergès, of our social, cultural, and identity struggles. It denounced injustice, the right wing, and its accomplices. Maloya was not just music – it was a political act, a way of asserting our ideas and aspirations.
Through maloya, I found a way to express what I felt, who I was, and what I wanted to stand for. It brought me immense joy, a deep sense of fulfillment, and the desire to share that passion with others. I wanted to break down the prejudices surrounding Réunionese music, long despised by the defenders of the established order.
SL: When did you form your first band?
DW: We created our first band in 1975. We were joined by Zazo Viry and other members of Firmin Viry’s family. We often spent time together, and it was at their invitation, at their home, that I composed my first song. Back then, we had to be inventive: to make a kayamb, which we called a “caviar,” we filled plastic bottles with sand.
My first public performance took place on December 27, 1975, in my village of Trois Mares. We didn’t yet have kayambs or roulèrs. René Viry’s band accompanied us that day. Among the audience were comrades from neighboring areas – Chemin Badamier, Ligne Paradis, Bois d’Olive. They were all members of the Communist Party. At that time, maloya was closely associated with the Party. That was true to a certain extent, but it was a somewhat narrow view.
The Party didn’t control everything: it wasn’t the one organizing the Front culturel Sud or the kabar gatherings in the Soubaya house in Basse-Terre. However, we were part of the Front de la Jeunesse Autonomiste (Autonomist Youth Front), linked to the Communist Party and figures such as Élie Hoarau. We were politically engaged, and it was that shared commitment that brought us together.
SL: You also refused to perform your military service. You paid the price for it, since you were sentenced to twenty-two months in prison. You were imprisoned in France, and it was from your cell that you wrote your first texts in Creole under the title Romans ékri dan la zol an Frans. Far from breaking you, prison allowed you to discover other political struggles and, on the contrary, strengthened your convictions. Tell us about that experience behind bars.
DW: I had decided not to join the army long before I was called up for conscription. We were already engaged in various struggles – against apartheid in South Africa, against the war in Vietnam, against the American base on Diego Garcia in the Chagos Archipelago. We were also actively involved in social movements in France.
When the time came, I refused to do my military service. But I waited until I was in France to make my stance official. I didn’t want my family to suffer the consequences of my decision or be subjected to pressure. Once in France, I didn’t hesitate to express my opposition during my first meetings with the officers. Despite that, I was declared “fit for service.” At the time, I was still in high school, in my final year – I was very young.
So, like all the other young men of my generation, I was taken away for military service. We were packed into an army DC-10, like cattle.
Before leaving for France, I had written my first song, Mon patrie, mon boucé manzé. It was recorded on a 33-rpm vinyl by my brother during my absence, accompanied by René Viry’s troupe, Simon Lagarrigue, Gaston Hoarau, and the guys from the Trois Mares neighborhood. The song already clearly affirmed my position and my convictions:
My homeland, my oxygen,
My homeland, my little straw hut
My homeland, my small place of work
To pay off my debts at the end of every year
I don’t care about the greatness of France
I know nothing but suffering
France, the land of the big white men
We are the poor ones, with no money
SL: Your rebellious nature comes across clearly in these lyrics.
DW: I was a true rebel, with a will as solid as volcanic rock. No one could dominate me or make me bend. When I arrived in Rueil-Malmaison, in the Paris region, on February 1, 1976, it was the middle of winter. I was wearing just a short-sleeved shirt and flip-flops. I didn’t even have shoes or socks in my suitcase.
A military truck came to collect us, and we had to climb into the back, under a raised tarpaulin, exposed to the freezing cold. I was shivering, completely numb. Far from discouraging me, that experience only strengthened my resolve. I was determined never to let anyone impose anything on me.
Maloya, inscribed in me like a precious treasure, became my shield and my strength. This music filled me with a powerful energy and an unshakable determination that helped me face every trial. It solidified my rebellious spirit and my refusal to submit to authority.
SL: Where were you sent?
DW: We were dispatched to different barracks across France. I was assigned to Vannes, in Brittany, where I arrived after a long train journey.
On my very first morning there, an officer came to explain how to make our beds and arrange our lockers. I stood with my arms crossed, flatly refusing to obey his instructions. My attitude spoke for itself – it was pure defiance.
The sergeant, realizing he was dealing with a hard head, tried a paternalistic approach. He told me he had already spent time in Réunion and that he knew the military school in Le Tampon. I listened, but I answered bluntly that it didn’t change anything. I told him plainly that I had no intention of accepting military discipline. My refusal was firm, absolute, and non-negotiable.
SL: How did he react?
DW: They quickly brought me before another officer – a man with a belligerent tone – who shouted at me: “You want to go to the USSR? Are you working for Moscow?!” I told him to calm down, stop talking nonsense, and respect my decision not to serve in the army. At that moment, I think he realized that my determination was real.
Of course, I felt a little apprehensive. After all, I had never been in prison before. I was barely twenty years old when they locked me in a shared cell with bunk beds. I must admit, at first, I didn’t feel very comfortable being among all the other inmates. But the ice broke quickly. They asked me why I had been arrested. When I explained that I was refusing military service, their reaction was unanimous: “Then you’re our leader!” A friendship formed among us prisoners.
They made one last attempt to break me, by bringing me before a general – but that failed too. From that moment on, the resistance continued, even behind bars. We sang to express our irreverence and our refusal to conform – and I didn’t hold back. Quite the opposite. Then we decided to take things further: we set fire to our cells.
After twenty-three days of confinement in the barracks, I was transferred to the prison in Rennes. It was a journey of nearly a hundred kilometers from Vannes, made in a police van. I still remember one gendarme making a racist remark during the trip: “You’re from Réunion? Must be hard living with all those Blacks down there.” His stupidity left me speechless. The first thought that crossed my mind was, What an idiot! But I knew no explanation could lift him out of his ignorance. So I simply kept quiet.
SL: How was your time in prison in Rennes?
DW: The Rennes detention center is a large prison – an oppressive environment – but I took refuge in writing. I received an abundance of letters of support from all over, which I made a point of reading and replying to carefully. My act of defiance had been covered by the national press, notably Libération, which brought attention to my case.
Writing became my main occupation. I also wrote to my family, especially my mother, who was worried about me. I told her not to be anxious, to think that I had simply gone to work in France, like so many other people from Réunion, and that I would come back in time.
To lighten the weight of the situation, I relied on humor. It helped me endure the ordeal – and it soothed my mother’s anxiety. I knew that, even from afar, my situation was causing her great suffering. It was a painful experience for me too.
SL: Two things helped you overcome this ordeal: people’s solidarity and music.
DW: Absolutely. The solidarity of others was a great source of comfort. I particularly remember a letter from Madeleine Lemarié, a 75-year-old Amnesty International activist who supported political prisoners. I also received many letters from the families of other draft resisters, from trade unionists – notably those at the Saint-Nazaire shipyards. This constant solidarity carried me through my entire imprisonment.
On the other hand, I received no support from the Communist Party of Réunion. I even remember an article written by the PCR about me that began with: “Although reprehensible, Danyèl Waro…” That clumsy, misplaced phrase made me smile wryly. They seemed to want to capitalize politically on my gesture while disowning me at the same time.
From 1975 onward, the PCR had begun to shift its stance to make itself more acceptable, adopting a more conciliatory attitude toward the tricolor flag. This change contrasted sharply with our attachment to the red flag, the symbol of revolution. That evolution brought the PCR closer to the Socialist Party, but it also fragmented the different sensibilities within the maloya movement. Some, like my brother Gaston Waro, remained close to the PCR. Others, leaning toward the Socialist Party, found a new figure in François Mitterrand. Meanwhile, the independence activists, like Serge Sinamalé, aligned themselves with the Marxist-Leninist Communist Organization of Réunion (OCMLR).
So I knew I couldn’t count on the PCR. I had support from a few individual activists, but not from the party itself, which even publicly condemned me. Yet I hadn’t joined any extremist group. I had simply asserted my right to stand by my ideas and principles – above all, my refusal to perform military service.
My family, however, was there for me. My mother and brothers came to visit me in prison. It was a painful moment, especially seeing my mother, aged and worn by worry. I felt guilty for causing her that pain. I told them not to worry about me, but deep down I suffered from their sadness – and from the solitude of prison.
SL: In 1977, you returned to Réunion and decided to devote yourself entirely to maloya. How were you received by the community – you, the “little white guy”?
DW: That’s an interesting question, and I think it touches on important aspects of my journey. The very first time I sang maloya was just before I left for France and my imprisonment, with my song Mon patrie mon boucé manzé. Back then, it was still very rudimentary. I was a beginner, with no real experience. Yet that moment left a deep mark on me.
I sang in front of René Viry’s group – he was a respected figure in maloya. They liked my style. I don’t know whether it was the lyrics that moved them, or my voice, or maybe a mix of both. But the fact that such a key figure of maloya appreciated my song gave me confidence. It confirmed for me that this music would become an essential part of my life.
When I returned to Réunion after my release, it was obvious that I had to dedicate myself fully to maloya. I didn’t yet play well, nor sing with real assurance, but I was writing a lot. Friends like Axel Gauvin helped me tremendously in that process. Axel was like a mentor to me at the time.
As soon as I came back, I started recording my first songs. One of the first pieces I composed, Oté La Réunion, was born in that period. Originally, I had titled it La déporte a mwin.
SL: You formed your first band after your release.
DW: Yes, when I returned, I brought together a group of artists to form a band we called Flamboyant. The name was symbolic: it evoked Réunion’s emblematic tree, with its brilliant colors – but also my own red hair. It was a way of asserting pride in who I was, in my uniqueness, including my physical appearance. As a child, my skin color and hair had often made me the target of ridicule, but by then, I had turned that stigma into a blessing – a gift from God.
I sang at Communist Party celebrations, where I also played the role of speaker. I often spoke alongside figures such as Philippe Berne, particularly in Le Tampon. My speeches did not focus on economic or social issues like unemployment, since I wasn’t well-versed in those topics. I spoke about what truly mattered to me: culture, identity, and the Creole language.
I remember some people advising me to tone down my remarks, especially before more bourgeois audiences in the cities. They wanted me to adapt, to be more strategic. But I couldn’t bring myself to do that. My speech was free – without tactical compromises or electoral calculations. I said what was in my heart.
I devoted myself entirely to maloya. I didn’t just sing; I also made my own instruments – the kayamb and the roulèr. That was my world, my universe.
In music, I’ve always loved playing with rhythm. Firmin Viry inspired me deeply, especially with his song Valet Valet. He had a magical way of shifting from a classic waltz to a quicker, more spirited rhythm. I was fascinated by that. That’s how pieces like Tin Blues and Batarsité were born – infused with my own imagination and sense of freedom. These artists often took the great classics of French waltzes and Creolized them, injecting their own sensibility and identity into them.
SL: Most of your lyrics carry a sense of commitment – of protest and affirmation.
DW: I moved in independence circles with Dédé Payet, who was a true unifier. We focused mainly on the cultural dimension, through kabaré gatherings, drawing inspiration from what the Communist Party had done with the Front Culturel Sud. Our movement was called L’Entente Maloya. In 1980, I took part in my first service kabaré in Ravine Blanche – it was an extraordinary experience. I was deeply struck by that telluric force, the atmosphere, the smells. I was discovering another side of maloya.
There was Gramoune Baba – I already knew him, as he was linked to the Communist Party. Later, he invited me to every service kabaré he organized, and I got to know his family. I learned a lot from him. I particularly loved the service kabaré because there was no artifice – no stage, no microphone.
I had never questioned my skin color. It was during the service kabaré that people made me aware of the fact that I was white. When I arrived at the service kabaré in Saint-Louis, there wasn’t a single other white person there. With my appearance – my red hair and glasses – I stood out immediately. For many, maloya was music played by Black people, so my presence came as a great surprise. It’s true that, historically, maloya is African music. For mixed-race people to play it – that was still acceptable. But a white man like me? That was unheard of.
Some people knew my name and liked my music without ever having seen me. When they finally met me, they were astonished to see that I was white. I didn’t fit the image of a maloya singer at all – and that amused me. I’ve always enjoyed challenging prejudice, norms, and the established order, questioning all forms of classification.
Still, I had to prove – more than others – that I had my place as a maloyeur, precisely because of my skin color. I didn’t have the right to be an average singer; I had to stand out. I couldn’t settle for being “decent.”
SL: You had to prove your legitimacy as a maloya artist and singer.
DW: I had nothing to prove to myself, but I knew that in other people’s eyes, I had to prove my worth. I didn’t have the usual skin color of a maloya singer, so I had to measure up. The funny thing was that some people who had enjoyed my music before meeting me found themselves disarmed by their own prejudices when they discovered that I was white. Everyone assumed I was Black. It would have been pure bad faith to question the quality of my music because of my skin color.
At that time, we were maloya activists. We had no career plans and earned no money from our music. When we took part in a celebration, we simply asked for our travel expenses to be covered. It wasn’t until the early 1990s that we began to make a living from our art. Still, I never wanted to turn maloya into a business or chain together endless concerts.
SL: When did you record your first album?
DW: We recorded our first cassette in 1987. It contained nine tracks. I had composed many more songs, but we decided to limit this first recording to a handful of pieces. In 1994, I recorded my first CD, which brought together a selection of ten songs.
My acceptance into this musical world was a complex journey, and I understand the reservations people expressed – as well as the ancestral pain behind them. When you see a white man playing maloya, you might think he is appropriating a music that doesn’t belong to him, that he’s a thief of culture. That perception led me to question myself deeply: did maloya belong to me as a Réunionese? Am I not, in part, African? Don’t I have the right to express myself through this music? Does the color of my skin disqualify me?
I came to the conclusion that I was as legitimate as anyone else. No one could forbid me from singing maloya, because this music was part of me – it lived within me – and nothing and no one could separate me from it.
I was also profoundly influenced by Malbar culture, which left an indelible mark on me. Its role in the history of Réunion is extraordinary. Malbar festivals are magnificent. There are many stories about so-called Malbar witchcraft, but in my view, this was above all a form of defense – a way for an oppressed community, dominated by the “big white people,” to command respect and preserve its identity, culture, and beliefs. One of the ways to achieve that was by inspiring a certain awe through specific rituals.
From childhood, I discovered the drum through Malbar ceremonies. The vibrations of those instruments resonated deeply within me and left a lasting impression. I also have vivid memories of carts overflowing with dazzling flowers. Although I don’t come from that community, Malbar culture has become an integral part of my identity.
Daniel Singaïny invited me many times to Tamil celebrations and even initiated me into fire walking. We sang maloya during those ceremonies – they were a real school of culture for me. Later, I invited him to sing a Tamil bal at the Trois Mares house when we started holding kabar gatherings.
SL: What is maloya? How would you define it? A song of resistance? A song of identity? A song that expresses pain and aspiration?
DW: I’ve often been asked that question, and to answer it, I wrote a song that captures what maloya means to me.
Maloya is the flowers I never received as a child. It embodies the imagination, the games, the wonder I missed in my early years. Maloya is a bouquet of beautiful roses that fell into my hands. It is a path that takes me everywhere – across all lands. Maloya is love.
People have said all sorts of things about maloya: that it was tied to ignorance, to witchcraft, to degradation or misery. None of that is true. Maloya is the joy of people dancing to its rhythms. It’s the celebration of Témoignages, of Firmin Viry, of Paul Vergès. It’s also the séga of Maxime Laope. We all belong to the same great family.
Maloya is also my mother’s prayers to the Virgin Mary when I was a child sick with diphtheria. She cared for my throat throughout my recovery, and it’s thanks to her that I can sing today. Through her love, she defeated the illness that threatened my voice – a voice that has become my joy and allowed me to live fully.
Maloya also helped me overcome the mockery I endured as a child because of my appearance and the color of my skin. For me, it is both a way to express political conviction and a declaration of love for humanity. Maloya opens the doors to the universe.
SL: Since 2009, maloya has been inscribed on UNESCO’s list of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. What does that mean for Réunionese culture and identity?
DW: It’s always gratifying to receive official recognition that shines a light on our culture and identity. It represents the culmination of a long struggle carried by our elders and by my own generation. But it would be premature to declare victory, because there are still people who look down on maloya, even though it’s a profound expression of the soul.
It’s up to us to give value to our heritage, our culture, our music, and our language. Compliments from outside – when people tell us our culture is beautiful – are always pleasant, but the essential thing is to know it ourselves, to believe in our own worth, in our own radiance. We must be convinced that our music is extraordinary.
That is our true struggle: a struggle for freedom, dignity, and recognition. Before seeking validation from elsewhere, we must first build our own path in that direction – with pride and determination. The support of others will follow naturally.
SL: Why, and for whom, do you sing today? Who are your lyrics aimed at?
DW: First and foremost, I sing for myself. When I discovered maloya, I was swept up by its energy. At first, I wondered whether my artistic expression should be militant – committed to the Communist Party, to Réunion. Before traveling abroad, I sang for Réunion, for the disadvantaged, for my color, my nation, my suffering, and to defend the Creole language.
Over time, as I traveled, I realized that outside the island the audience didn’t always understand my lyrics, yet they were moved by the music and wanted to know where I came from. I came to understand that my songs and messages had a universal reach, transcending the borders of my island. I wasn’t singing only for the disadvantaged or for victims of racism, but for a much wider audience. My music touched hearts and awakened sensitivities. The emotions I conveyed while singing in Creole resonated with many people, and I realized that, in the end, we shared the same aspiration.
That is the magic of music – and of maloya in particular: it lets me tell and transmit our humanity. Our universal humanity is expressed through everyday stories. Some say I talk often about the ghetto. I want to highlight everything beautiful in working-class neighborhoods – in Trois Mares, in Bois d’Olive – because they brim with humanity. I want to honor all the riches of the “little people.” I sing for them, for humanity.
When a cause anywhere in the world deserves to be defended, I commit to it and pour my whole heart and voice into supporting the struggle. I always sing what I feel – my sensibility – and that is surely why my music reaches every social class. Ultimately, I sing for my own happiness, because maloya is in my blood.
SL: Your lyrics are imbued with identity, cultural, political, and social demands. In your view, what is the artist’s duty? Should an artist commit to the cause of the weakest and reflect the concerns of the most disadvantaged in their work?
DW: I have always chosen the side of the weakest. Between the oppressor and the oppressed, I systematically take the side of those with no rights and no means, so they can lift their heads and fully exist.
Above all, an artist must have the freedom to express what lies within, in the depths of their being. They must be free to unsettle the established order, to express who they are and what they think. If money is their priority, they limit themselves – because then they can be bought. They’ll be forced to say “blue, white, red” when they don’t want to. A mayor, a deputy, or a government could compel them to paint a picture or write a song in colors that don’t suit them.
Artists must remain independent in order to express themselves fully. Let me give you an example. Sometimes people who know me well invite me to sing and offer a good contract – but they add conditions, such as not performing certain songs like “Planteur” or “Batarsité.” In those cases, I always refuse. It is out of the question to limit my freedom of artistic expression. It is an insult to think one can buy anyone’s freedom. For me, it is unthinkable to keep quiet for money. An artist’s freedom is non-negotiable – it is their main strength.
An artist cannot contradict themselves without risking being seen as an opportunist or a charlatan who goes whichever way the wind blows. Unfortunately, some artists sell themselves to the highest bidder, trading convictions for money or fame. They appear alongside political figures, believing it will advance their careers. But an artist must not sell themselves. If they become dependent on power or money, they lose their essence – it is as if they die as an artist.
I’m not trying to lecture anyone; I’m simply sharing my point of view. For me, an artist must be true to their word. When I commit to sing somewhere, I honor my agreement, even if a better opportunity arises in the meantime. Money will never sway my freedom or my word.
SL: In Banm Kloubanm, you emphasize that young people in Réunion are forced into exile for lack of professional prospects in their homeland.
DW: Instead of seeking solutions on the island, some politicians chose to deport children from Réunion to Creuse, inflicting indelible trauma on thousands of families. More than 2,000 children were torn from their homes, forcibly separated from their loved ones, and sent to France, where they often suffered terrible abuse.
Our youth were also driven into exile by the BUMIDOM, lured with the promise of a better life in mainland France rather than opportunities being created in their homeland. We were made to believe that France – Paris in particular – was Eldorado, the ultimate dream. Faced with extremely difficult conditions in Réunion, many believed the authorities’ promises and signed up, thinking they would find a better future. But it was a mirage.
This situation persists today: having to leave your island against your will, for lack of local solutions, is unbearable. Current policies continue to depopulate Réunion of its inhabitants while attracting people from mainland France. This contradiction is unacceptable. Why not value the skills and talents that already exist here on the island?
We were made to grow sugarcane while continuing to import food from thousands of kilometers away. Is that really a normal situation?
That’s why, in my songs, I call out this reality: the BUMIDOM, the deportation of children to Creuse, and all these injustices. I need to put words to this pain and these struggles.
SL: You are very attached to the Creole language. You also criticize a certain elite who reject Creole in favor of French: “In morso kréol lé pi kab tiré.”
DW: When it comes to language, conditioning is extremely powerful. As soon as children enter school, the official language is French, not Creole. All diplomas are written in French. For decades, we’ve been told that learning to speak properly necessarily meant learning French – relegating our language, our identity, and our culture to the background.
The local elite are particularly affected by this conditioning, as they were educated within the French school system. They therefore privilege French, which they associate with success, beauty, and science. Yet these same people grew up in homes where Creole was spoken. Their parents – also Creole speakers – enabled them to reach the highest levels of education. So should we say that those parents failed simply because they preserved Creole as their main language?
French is a beautiful language. It has been presented to us as the language of civilization. But Creole is just as beautiful – it too is a language of civilization.
This devaluation of our culture goes far beyond language. Take cuisine, for example: our gastronomy has been criticized as “unbalanced.” We adopted French eating habits, full of ultra-processed foods – and today, we have the highest rate of childhood obesity in France.
This conditioning has seeped into every part of our lives, and language has been its main instrument. Speaking French instead of Creole has been presented as progress. In the same way, we were taught to believe in the Christian “God,” while Malbar deities, for example, were dismissed as witchcraft. We were expected to follow the French model – perceived as the only true one.
The local elite internalized these standards in order to access prestigious positions in society. This conditioning no longer needs to be imposed by the colonizer: it has become self-imposed. Worse still, it no longer affects only the elite, but a large part of the population.
SL: You yourself have faced discrimination against the Creole language and culture.
DW: In the early 1980s, I remember going to meet my son’s teacher at school to ask a question that mattered deeply to me: “What about Creole?” What I wanted to know, of course, was what measures were being taken to preserve and promote the Creole language. But her reply left me speechless: “You see, Mr. Waro, in class we’ll do our best. But during recess, there’s nothing we can do.” She thought I was asking her to stop my son from speaking Creole.
That anecdote says it all about the mentality of the time – when our language was systematically belittled and punished. Students were even encouraged to report classmates who spoke Creole, and informers were rewarded. The system was designed that way. Some pupils were penalized – even given a zero out of ten – simply for speaking Creole in class. My own son was punished for that very reason.
I went back to the teacher to tell her that this was unacceptable, undignified, and, above all, absurd from an educational standpoint. I tried to make her see that it was in everyone’s interest to value Creole at school. Far from being a hindrance, Creole is a treasure. How can we ask a child to renounce their language and identity, and then expect them to learn another language with confidence and enthusiasm? It makes no sense.
How can we build the citizens of tomorrow by suppressing their culture instead of valuing it? How can we preach equality – the very foundation of our Republic – in such a way? How can we foster self-esteem like this? Schools also have the mission of teaching children pride in their identity, in who they are. That’s how we break down prejudice and racism. That’s how we build true equality – by respecting and valuing each person’s roots and culture. We can learn every language in the world, for that is a source of richness – but never at the cost of erasing our own. It is absurd to set French and Creole against each other.
Unfortunately, schools have often instilled in children a sense of shame toward their parents, their language, their culture, and their differences – simply because they didn’t speak French. Worse still, we have been partly complicit in this situation, because we often went along with such policies. We laugh at people who don’t speak French well, without realizing the suffering that kind of mockery inflicts on the people of Réunion.
You cannot despise a culture, nor impose one language at the expense of another. You cannot impose a culture by force – or through the threat of punishment. Such practices are deeply painful.
We have a duty to preserve our language, our culture, our identity, and our island. We will only be respected if we first learn to respect ourselves. That begins with rejecting submission and demanding true equality.
SL: In one of your songs, Tinn tout, you say that by trying so hard to be like Parisians, we end up resembling nothing. Is this an invitation to young people to take pride in their Creole identity and roots – and not forget that Réunion is, ethnically, historically, geographically, and culturally, African?
DW: Africa occupies a central place in our history. Yet we turned our backs on Africa and Madagascar in favor of Europe, of white people, and of the Catholic religion. In Réunion, our way of life, our beliefs, our practices – they do not come from Europe. Hinduism, animism, and other traditions coexist here. Our cuisine is unique. Our language has its own character.
The real struggle is to be true to ourselves – to stand upright again after being conditioned for so long to conform to a single model: that of the white and the Catholic. This conditioning dates back to the era of slavery, and it was reinforced by an administration and a system of governance modeled on France.
The departmentalization of 1946 certainly brought progress, granting us greater rights as French citizens – development of infrastructure, improvements in health and education. I don’t deny that it helped ease the heavy poverty that weighed on Réunion. But we cannot erase our identity and culture simply because France helped us meet some material needs.
Just because our plates are a little fuller doesn’t mean we should fall silent and abandon our demands. That would be intolerable. It’s precisely for that reason that an autonomist movement arose, led in particular by Paul Vergès. We want to be involved in the decisions that concern us, because in 1946, when Réunion became a department, we didn’t become fully French. We didn’t achieve true equality.
We demand to be recognized and respected for who we are – with the specific characteristics of our history and our culture. We cannot be asked to resemble the French from mainland France. We want full equality, not just a fragment of it.
SL: Full and complete equality, in respect of diversity.
DW: Exactly. Administratively, economically, and politically, we are tied to France – but our identity and culture are different, deeply connected to Africa, Madagascar, and Mozambique. Yet, through forced assimilation, our language has lost much of its original African vocabulary. It is vital that we preserve and keep alive our ties with Africa. Our skin is African, our features are African. We cannot deny or erase our Africanness.
We demand that our identity be fully respected. We no longer want to make do with a token “Creole Day” once a year, or with the supposed right to speak Creole – as if one needed permission to exercise a fundamental human right: to speak one’s own language. Sometimes I am invited on television and hear a journalist, albeit well-intentioned, tell me, “You can speak Creole.” How insolent! I need no one’s permission to express myself in my own language. Creole is neither a handicap nor a disease!
I cannot accept that my expression be restrained, or that cultural and linguistic domination be imposed at the expense of my identity. Creole lies at the very heart of our history, for it is what binds together the construction of Réunion’s identity.
In the same way, if we abandon our own cuisine to eat nothing but hamburgers, tacos, or pizzas as in France, we lose an essential part of who we are. By striving so hard to resemble others, we end up resembling nothing. We forget who we are. And what will we have left to share with the rest of the world if we fail to preserve our differences?
SL: You were also involved in the struggle against apartheid in South Africa with your song Soweto, and in your song Mandela you pay tribute to the South African leader. What does that struggle mean to you?
DW: Since my youth, within the Communist Party, we fought not only for Réunion but also on the international front. All these struggles converge, because at their core, they are all battles for freedom. At the time, there was the Vietnam War, and we stood with the oppressed – that is, with the Vietnamese. We denounced the American bombings.
We also fought for the Chagos, against the establishment of the American military base at Diego Garcia and against the forced deportation of the Chagossian population. Those people were victims of genuine ethnic cleansing, forced into exile in Mauritius, as if they were insignificant. The struggle waged by the Chagossians, led by Olivier Bancoult, is admirable. Their fight for the right of return remains exemplary. The U.S. military base – a theft of territory supported by Britain – should never have existed. The great powers talk endlessly about international law and human rights, but only when it suits them. Peoples such as the Chagossians and the Palestinians are deprived of those rights, reduced to silence.
It was in this activist environment that I grew up – against war, against apartheid, for equality and justice. When Mandela was thrown into prison, I was very young, but I remember the outrage it provoked. We fought for his release, for the ANC, against institutionalized racism, segregation, and supremacism. It was inconceivable that a minority could dominate an entire country simply because of the color of its skin. Black South Africans were foreigners in their own land. They had to obtain a pass just to move around their own country.
SL: You have always been sensitive to struggles for freedom.
DW: The fight for freedom is indeed universal – whether in Réunion, in South Africa with Mandela, or in Cuba with Fidel Castro. It is always a struggle against oppression: that of colonizers, of rulers, or of the wealthy who seek to crush the people in order to preserve their privileges.
We cannot forget the harmful role of the United States and the CIA, who orchestrated coups to overthrow popular governments around the world, installing in their place dictatorial regimes that served their interests – like Pinochet in Chile.
Our solidarity with peoples fighting for their freedom stems from a profoundly human feeling. We are brothers and sisters in humanity. We express it willingly, just as we welcome solidarity from the world when we are the ones in need.
By singing Soweto, I express that solidarity. Freedom has no borders, and there is brotherhood in struggle.
SL: How do you view Réunion today? What are its strengths? What are the challenges? What should be changed or preserved?
DW: There are wonderful things about Réunion. Our natural environment is extraordinary. We are fortunate to live on an island whose land area keeps growing thanks to regular volcanic eruptions. We have magnificent natural cirques and a mighty ocean, not to mention our tropical climate and sunshine.
Added to this is our unique history. We are an example for the rest of the world – not to be copied, since every country has its own identity – but proof that many paths are possible. White and Black people can live together, side by side, and even within a single person through métissage. We broke the racist norms imposed by the colonial state, which separated peoples and forbade mixed unions.
Visitors are always amazed by our island and its blend – by our vivre-ensemble, our tolerance, our respect, and our embrace of all the cultures and beliefs found here. We are Christians, Muslims, animists, Buddhists, and even atheists. Elsewhere, ethnic or religious conflict is legion; here, it is not. We invite people to the chapel or to the mosque without asking what they believe. That is our great strength. We are open to the world, and difference is our natural norm.
SL: That is indeed what characterizes Réunion.
DW: I am white, yet I sing maloya, which has entered my heart and soul. We invented ourselves. We created a new civilization, only 350 years young. It is modest compared to the great Indian, African, Chinese, or Greco-Roman civilizations, but we don’t like comparing ourselves to others. What matters is that our civilization has value in our own eyes.
We are, however, aware that our history is violent and tumultuous, and that tensions remain unresolved. It is up to us to carry out our own therapy – through cultural and artistic dialogue. Maloya is an excellent remedy.
We also enjoy a degree of freedom compared with other regions of the world. So we must keep our language, our identity, our culture, our ceremonies alive. We must not be afraid to live, despite hardship and poverty. It falls to us to take our particular destinies in hand and be the actors of our own lives: to find a path, a job, a vocation that allows us to flourish, and not fear obstacles or foul weather.
That is how my parents raised me. You must always work and do what is needed to reach that goal. When sugarcane needs cutting, you cut sugarcane. When corn needs planting, you plant corn. And when you must fight for your rights, you fight for your rights.
But do not pass by beauty, the birdsong, or spirituality.
SL: As someone so attached to the values of respect, tolerance, and living together, how do you view France and the resurgence of racist and xenophobic rhetoric that stigmatizes the other – the foreigner, the weak, the defenseless?
DW: France colonized the world by presenting its civilization as superior to others. When labor is needed, it calls on foreign workers; as soon as they are no longer needed, it rejects them. A colonial and racist culture is imposed from above. We must rethink how difference is taught in schools – the right to be different – because that is where the key to tolerance lies.
Immigrant labor was called upon to build the country and clean the streets. That population helped keep France alive, just as enslaved people once kept Réunion alive. Diversity from the former colonies – ethnic, religious, cultural – has long been a reality in France.
France presents itself as a great country of freedom, of the Enlightenment, and of human rights; it must be faithful to those values by respecting differences. There are not only “native whites” in the country. A true democracy must be capable of making differences coexist, whether regional or from elsewhere. You can be French and speak Breton. You can be French and speak Basque. You can be French and speak Creole. You can be French and speak your own language. Who can forbid it? Who can prevent it? And for what reason? I can speak Creole or Breton while also speaking French.
And there are also the descendants of immigrants from other lands – Italy, Poland, Africa, and beyond. These multiple identities enrich France and must be recognized and respected.
SL: Racism is often linked to prejudice, ignorance, and fear of others.
DW: We must learn to live without fear of others, to free ourselves from prejudice, and to say: “That’s my brother I see there, even if his skin is not the same color as mine.” In this age of globalization and exchange, the mixing of populations is more intense than ever. There are people from Réunion all over the world. We cannot ask people to assimilate, to erase their culture, to renounce their identity. It’s impossible – and it would impoverish everyone.
We must respect each other’s customs and traditions. The world’s richness lies in its differences. You cannot enjoy a dish like couscous and, at the same time, reject Muslim religious practice. It makes no sense. The problem in France – and more broadly in Europe – is this tendency to erase identities, to impose “Civilization,” with its unbearable division between what is deemed good and what is deemed bad, as if whatever comes from elsewhere were uncivilized.
In Réunion, we are fortunate to have cultivated and nurtured the conviction that we are like others, and others are like us. We are in the other, and the other is in us. We are Malbars, Cafres, Chinese, Zarabes, whites, and bâtards. We are all mixed, and we embrace it fully. We are proud of it.
This constant blending makes us richer than many other regions of the world. Take my case: if you look at my skin color, I shouldn’t be singing maloya or walking on fire. Yet I do both. That is our wealth, our strength. And that is what we must cultivate.
SL: We’re coming to the end of this fascinating conversation. What message would you like to leave for young people?
DW: First of all, you must understand that life is not a bed of roses. It’s not always easy. Like in sport, you sweat, you struggle, you suffer – but you move forward, and you grow. Life is made of both wonderful moments and difficult trials. That balance is what gives it meaning. Nothing is handed to you; you must fight for your rights.
You gain your freedom through effort and work, even when it’s hard. Work is emancipating – but you must stay vigilant, so as not to be exploited by others. We need to restore dignity to manual labor, whether agricultural, artisanal, or otherwise. We must respect the nobility of our farmers, who give life every day by cultivating the earth. The life cycle of a corn plant is the cycle of life itself.
We must not give in to the consumerist temptation that dominates our society. We consume soulless, ultra-processed products – too salty, too sweet – and we’ve lost touch with nature and with life on earth. These practices are poisoning us. We are made to believe that endless consumption is the meaning of life. We’ve become prisoners of our screens, which give us the illusion of freedom and culture – but it’s only an illusion.
We must return to essential values – to love of nature, of the earth. Technological progress has its place when it spares humans from backbreaking labor, but we must always maintain contact with the soil, with plants, with life. Let’s step out of this artificial, virtual world. Let’s refuse to live at full speed without knowing where we’re going.
Let’s think first of collective progress. Let’s stay true to ourselves. Let’s love our island, our language; let’s marvel at our erupting volcano and rejoice in our nature. Let’s never despise ourselves.
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Référence électronique
Salim Lamrani, « The Creole Language Is the Cornerstone of Réunion’s Identity », Études caribéennes [En ligne], 15 | Novembre 2025, mis en ligne le , consulté le 14 novembre 2025. URL : http://journals.openedition.org/etudescaribeennes/37877 ; DOI : https://doi.org/10.4000/15372
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